Silver to Rust
by Stardust Firebolt
Summary: Memories can be so painful. In Angeline Fowl’s case, they brutally dragged her down into an abyss of insanity. And that insanity adversely affected her son’s life forever. Alternate Universe - what could have happened if Holly hadn’t cured Angeline.
1. Silver to Rust

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Silver to Rust

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Memories can be so painful. In Angeline Fowl's case, they brutally dragged her down into an abyss of insanity. And that insanity adversely affected her son's life forever. Alternate Universe - what could have happened if Holly hadn't cured Angeline.

Written by: Stardust Firebolt

Dedicated to: Blue Yeti - for compelling me to write this idea out, and school - for stressing me out enough to make me want to turn to writing as a form of escape.

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(Angeline's point of view)

I lie flat on my back and look listlessly at the ceiling, wondering what colours it will display today, other than the original white. But today it has decided to behave, so it's just white, quite normal, quite ordinary. Which is good, because at times the ceiling gets bored of its mundane life and decides to pretend that it were something else. I hate it when that happens, because it always chooses to act as a film projector. Then it begins to play the movie of my life, complete with flickering, seemingly ancient scenes that I can't quite remember and sharp, clear ones that were the most special to me. The wedding scene, for example. I don't think I would ever forget that. They say you look the most resplendent on your wedding day. Well, I think so too. And I have to add that your husband would look tremendously dashing and suave.

But I digress. The ceiling shows me the memories I've tried so hard to erase from my mind. And even though I try to forget, the ceiling relishes in tormenting people and brazenly displays them before my eyes. The audacity! I'll have to ask the maid to kill the ceiling one day. I will ask her to take a paintbrush and end its pure, clean life by splashing it all over with crimson blood. How dare it show the ugly, ugly things people call "memories"? Yes, the memories were something to cherish once, like the silver necklace I received from him. But all I see now are the vicious roots of rust which begin to curl themselves around the silver, tarnishing its beauty. Silver to rust. Such a quick change in just a space of time. Did I mention that I hate time, and I blame time? It's all time's fault that I am reduced to this pathetic state of just staring at the ceiling, and wishing, wishing, wishing. The endless waiting for his return is intense agony. After all the waiting, he has still not returned. And I constantly ask myself, "Why?" Was it because God thought I was sinning too much or if He just likes me to suffer? All that questioning and waiting has taken a toll on the little, special things in my life, like that necklace, and my memories. But the tall people in adorable white coats reckon that all that waiting has taken a toll on my mental health as well. They speak in whispers about my deteriorating sanity. My threadbare sanity. I still laugh quietly at their delusion when I remember what they say. Silly doctors, thinking they're so smart. They're wrong! I think the craziest thing has got to be the ceiling. Why don't they diagnose the ceiling and take it away? The ceiling is the malevolently evil one, it always takes out its fiery whips to lash out at me, scarring me horribly.

I don't want to risk hurting myself with hideous memories in case the ceiling decides to change its identity again, so I turn to the side. I've been doing that a lot lately - tossing and turning. I like to toss and turn because it gives me the feel of running away. Running away from what, you ask? Hmm...from everything of course. The unbearable waiting, especially. And the responsibilities I am now burdened with, because now that he's not around, I not only have to take care of Arty darling, I need to watch over the house too. But doesn't anyone understand that I have to stay in this room and wait for him? Why doesn't someone else I'm too busy waiting, and I have no time to manage household matters? Painful as the waiting is, I miss him too much to leave this room and go about my daily routine. What if I'm too caught up in my routine and begin to forget my grief? If it's something I want to cling on to, it's that sanguine hope that he will one day return, even though the days grow darker with time. And if I put my grief aside and go back to being 'normal', I might stop thinking about him. And that would be horrendous. Ah, the tendrils of love have wound themselves too tight around my ankles. They have seduced me into this trap. And all I can think about is him, him, him.

Life was much simpler then, of course. Maybe it's not a foolish fantasy if I keep hoping that I'll be back to who I was before I got married to him - young and naive. I would like to be carefree once again, and be able to love wildly and freely like a dewy-eyed child. And to rebel against the expected commitment of love. I want to just run, run, run.

But now I am forced to wait, and the time stretches longer still. I turn to the other side, and a shaft of sunlight hits me directly in the eyes. Arrrrgh! Don't they know I hate the dawn now? I know I used to like the gradient of colours splashed over the rippled surface of the sea, making it an intricately woven carpet of nature, but now I hate it for what it represents - another day! I don't want to be disappointed with another day of waiting. Stupid maid didn't close the curtains properly! Must tell Arty darling to sack her once and for all.

I hear them, I hear them again, they're coming for me. Why doesn't anyone understand? The memories are coming back again, clashing back and forth violently in my mind, even though I've told them to go away. I keep seeing Timmy, who was my childhood sweetheart, the 'he' I was talking about, the one who did not return. The memories keep on wanting to torture me so that they can laugh at the state I've become. It's so unfair, it's so unfair, it really hurts. Oh, Mummy!

I see it. I see it all, the movie of my life. Timmy darling is calling me from school now, so faithfully and loyally like the sweetheart he is, blinded by love. When did passion drive everyone so crazy? When did emotion overcome logic? The scenes keep jumping back and forth, and I want them to stop, my heart is hurting so much. No more, no more, no more! Why are they driving me crazy?

Timmy giving me the silver necklace, Timmy getting down on his knees and proposing. Me accepting, and Timmy giving me a kiss. Someone presses the rewind button on the video recorder and my memories backtrack, stopping to one where Timmy gives me flowers. Then Timmy and me at the beach. Timmy and me walking in the park. Timmy sitting beside me on the bench, saying nothing, letting silence speak for us.

No, no, please. Don't make me cry. I don't want to think about him anymore, get him out of my head, out of my head. The memories are being irritating centipedes that are crawling all over my brain, out of my ears, then all over my skin, making me tingle. I keep trying to tell Arty that they're coming after me, but he doesn't seem to understand. I shiver - with fear of confronting my memories, or anger at them tormenting me, or excessive grief, I don't know. Maybe the tall men in white coats will examine me again and diagnose me with something I haven't heard of. They sacrifice what I feel for their own scientific terms. They don't understand. They won't ever. They just pretend. They just want to show off their qualifications.

But Timmy won't get out of my head. He was always that stubborn.

I have to think of something else. Something else, to stop this prickly feeling behind my eyeballs, to stop the onslaught of tears. I've cried enough. No more. NO MORE.

Mr. Simon. Yes, my maths teacher. That's a memory good enough. He was the strict one who would always whack me with a ruler if I forgot my multiplication tables.

One times six is six. Two times six is twelve. Three times six is eighteen. Four times six is twenty-four. Five times six is thirty. Very good, Angeline, you're getting there. Very good, very good, very good. You're forgetting Timmy. Six times six is thirty-six. Seven times six is forty-two. Eight times six is forty-eight.

And I delight in the fact that the silver necklace continues to rust.


	2. Threadbare Sanity

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Chapter Two

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Threadbare Sanity

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Author's Note: Sincere apologies for forgetting to include a disclaimer in the previous entry, as well as a few notes. The first chapter was just supposed to be an introduction to reinforce Angeline's insanity, and the chapters that follow it are really the consequences. It will done from many points of view, starting from Artemis, and then progressing slowly to include Butler, Juliet, and Holly. Or more. Thank you for all your reviews, they were enjoyable to read, and please continue to point out my mistakes or offer critical advice so that I can continue to improve.

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Trisani: You don't have a guestbook on your blog, so I'd just like to clear up a few things here - no, I'm not cutting myself, my friend is. I think cutting is quite ludicrous (but that's another story), and the reason why I muse so much about it is because I think I'm finally growing a heart. I don't like to portray myself as a problematic teen because I'm really not. Perhaps I just seem to have a difficult life because of the way I pen my thoughts down. Honestly, I used to be in that angsty, rebellious teenage stage, but now I'm pretty much more mellow. You should compare the differences between my two blogs, and you might be able to point out the changes. Cheero.

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(Artemis' point of view)

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January 25, 2002

Dear me,

It's probably my own self-centredness that I choose to address my journal this way, or if you were more intelligent, you would agree with me and think it was a wise move. Honestly, why do people address their journal as "Dear Diary"? It's all very silly, for how can anyone expect a non-living thing to answer your questions and agree with what you think? Personally, I feel the purpose of a journal is to keep in touch with your inner self, to delve into the depths of your own mind and find out hidden secrets you don't even know about. Or to help you make a character analysis of yourself, for it is hardest to judge your own self. And that in forty years' time, you will flip back the pages of this journal and laugh at how deluded you were, thinking you were so mature, thinking you had the ability to handle all your problems in just the palm of one hand, thinking you were ready to take on the world, when in all actuality you hadn't grown up, and merely stood poised on the brink of wisdom and immaturity.

Perhaps I will use this as a mirror then, and in the midst of writing, I might even surprise myself at finding out the things I don't show outside of my facade. Yes, my whole life is a play, a play to just entertain and please the audience. Sometimes, I get so caught up in acting I forget what true emotion is. So this could also serve to remind myself that I am merely human after all, with dreams, ambitions, fears, feelings, and lust.

It's scary to think that some people in Ireland know what's going on behind the walls of Fowl Manor. Perhaps the news spread because Juliet loves to associate with the boys around here, and sometimes she never knows when to keep her mouth shut. How do I know that the news has spread? Being the social leper that I am, I logged onto the Internet in order to chat with a few people in a bid to try and reach out to the youths my age. Also to rid myself of my own cynicism, which has resulted in me leading a lonely life. At times, these people even serve as a source of entertainment with the way they misspell things, and gossip about Justin Timberlake or Britney Spears, thinking that they're so hip to know the intimate details of a superstar's life.

Or maybe, seeing that I am a growing teenage boy, I would feel the need to satisfy a growing lust. I've begun to take an interest in girls lately. But knowing me, I would never take the initiative to ask them out. My own shyness repulses me sometimes. Somehow, my own genius has resulted in me not knowing how to communicate with people on the same level, and not knowing how to socialise. Somehow, that has caused me to create my own bubble and continue living in it, not daring to approach the world beyond its cold boundaries, afraid of getting my feelings hurt, and because I base my life on too much passion and emotion, bursting that precious bubble would destroy my own fragile existence. Everything would shatter.

But I digress. Today I had the utmost misfortune to converse with a girl who named herself Angel789. The words that tumbled out of her mouth were the typical colour of fuchsia pink, a growing obsession with many girls lately, and she was obviously a fast typist as she screamed *"LOL" after every second. What exactly was so funny I never realised, but the thing about her that caught my attention was the fact that she was probably the worst of the gossipers. I shall now attempt to rewrite our conversation:

**Angel789: **so where r u frm?

**Me: **Er, I'm from Ireland.

**Angel789:** coolx! im frm ireland too

**Me: **....Right.

**Angel789: **lol. so u muz haf heard abt tat loony mother

**Me: **What loony mother?

**Angel789: **well, it isnt all tt publicised yet but i heard frm my friend that wealth isnt everythin

**Me: **I don't understand. What has wealth got to do with your previous statement?

**Angel789: **LOL! errr...u noe the fowl family? they're lyke, the richest family in ireland or sumthink like tt

**Me: **Erm, yes.

**Angel789: **i herd the mother's a bit loony or sumtink, which goes to show sumtimez wealth doesnt bring you happiness.

**Me: **Oh, really?

**Angel789: **yep. lol. quite funny, apprently her husband left and she got a bit wacko

**Me: **....Oh.

**Angel789: **ahaha. i pity her son though. wat's gonna happen 2 him?

I would have never thought that my family matters would have gotten this far. Which make things even worse, because then the Social Services might come to get me soon, and I don't want that. What _is _going to happen to me? Would I be labelled as one of those "Boys Who Have Been Rejected" and put into a home? Or will I be forced to live with one of those ageing, white-haired octogenarians, who are leading as lonely a life as mine? The Social Service workers don't understand: dysfunctional as my family may be, I belong here, and I came from my mother's womb. Somehow there is an unexplainable bond. Why would I want to begin my life anew under two people who happen to be unable to conceive and want a child? They would merely pretend to understand me, hypocritical as humans are, and they just want me because I'm just another boy, nameless probably to them. I'm just someone that can be taken away (regardless of whether he had a mother or not) and dumped in another house so that they can satisfy their miserable longing of wanting a child of their own. And yet, I am not theirs. 

And the Social Services delude themselves by thinking they would give me a better life, but how can my life be better if I am receiving fake parental love and pretending to reciprocate it in return? Before Mother went mad I had happy memories, and if only Father were to come back, all of that would return. I suppose I'm simple, really, so don't call me wimpy. In the end, humans were made to love and be loved in return. 

Under such pressure I always succumb to the thought of plotting another dastardly act. Somehow it takes my mind away from thinking about the unknown, about what my life will turn out like under another person's care. I miss Father. I really do. If he hadn't left, everything wouldn't have gotten so complicated. I almost hate him, and yet I yearn for him to come back and treat me like the son he always did.

I don't think Mother is the only one going mad. I'm going mad too, I feel my sanity slipping away, slipping away, slipping away. One of these days I may even be driven to a point where I'll commit a crime unknowingly and stupidly get caught for it.

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* LOL - _abbreviation and Net lingo for "laugh out loud"._


	3. Standing Helpless

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Chapter 3: Standing Helpless

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Disclaimer: Bah! Sorry! I forgot this AGAIN the last chapter. Very absent-minded. But here it is now. All Artemis Fowl characters mentioned belong rightfully to Eoin Colfer

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Author's Note: Dedicated specially to Blue Yeti for reading it even after I haven't updated this in ages.

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(Butler's point of view)

She's at it again.

The sporadic banging of a heavy skull against the flower-patterned wall. Or if she was in a less self-reproaching mood, a bedside lamp would do the trick to justify whatever strong emotion she was feeling inside.

I've seen a lot.

I've heard a lot.

Yet in all my years of training, I stand helpless.

Never has a situation been so complicated as the one that brews within the confines of Fowl Manor. I suppose, in a way, being here has also forced me to contemplate life a lot more. It's funny how I'm much more at home roaming the world on a dangerous assignment than protecting someone from getting hurt - and sometimes, seeing him get hurt physically isn't nearly as painful as watching him get hurt emotionally. Because being attached to such a young and wealthy boy has, in the process, led me to see so many broken dreams, broken hearts, and broken characters.

I'm much more blessed than the Fowls are, if you ask me. But I suppose the common folk won't believe me - nor will they be content with what they have. All they ever really see is the money, but I can't blame them - somehow this lifeless being has achieved a life of its own and has entwined its tendrils around them to govern their lives. Yet I think how very lucky I am everyday - how very lucky I didn't go into business. How very lucky I didn't get rich, for the rich are hounded after every day. How very lucky I'm not in love.

It's a sad thing to have to get used to.

Any minute now, Artemis won't be able to block out the noise. He won't be completely immune as he thinks he has built himself up to be, and he'll come scurrying out of the room, hesitant as always at the door, wondering if he should let his emotions come out in full display and risk the chance of having the bigger boys laugh at him for being immature and weak. A wimp, they will call him. They will say, You're rich but you aren't like one of us because you're the biggest wimpy loser in the world.

What do they know? How can they call him a wimp when they haven't been put into his circumstances? And I know better; the ones with facades are usually the most emotionally vulnerable. For they need a protective coat around them to keep them from harm they do not want to experience. They are weak inside, and cannot handle hurt. Strong on the outside, pathetic on the inside. They are the true cowards. I should know. I'm always covered under layers of so much stoic conceit. Little wonder why Clara said I wasn't the one for her, and I will lament that till the end of my life.

Artemis Fowl, so proud, but so vulnerable. He reminds me so much of the rose in "The Little Prince", by Antoine De Saint-Exupery. When I was young, I could not understand why the flower was so proud of her four thorns, but now that my post as a bodyguard has mellowed me and allowed me to observe human nature better, I comprehend the importance of thorns.

Here he comes now, the pitter-patter of his worried feet, skimming across the carpet, running at a speed you would not have believed for this scrawny little boy. Usually he's adversely against exercise and prefers to saunter calmly in that arrogant way of his, but he would do anything for his dear mother, even run. He skids to a stop at the sight of me standing by the door, and looks torn for a minute, as if all he wants to do is to break through the door and pull his mother away from the wall, sobbing into her shoulders, weeping for her insanity, but cannot let go of his pride. I can almost see him thinking, _'Tis none of your business, your mother's a gone case. Be strong, you can live without her, be strong._ Why he is so predictable to me I myself do not know, only that when he turns his melancholic blue eyes towards mine, I find myself reassuring him with my routine answer, "You're strong, Artemis."

Almost immediately he morphs into another personality, one with icy blue eyes and a hardened heart, self-confident that he is the person he believes he is, one who can get through anything without pointless and unnecessary emotion. For he can live like a human, think like a human, and love with a human heart. But with changing circumstances, he is beginning to live like a robot, think like a robot, and love like a robot. And his programmed routine is encrusted with frost, and numbness.

He glances furtively back at the doorknob, thinking I haven't noticed him, before he looks at his feet, and looks at me again. The _thud-thud-thud_ sound of Mrs Fowl's head-banging against the wall is all that fills the stony silence hovering like an obtrusive cloud between Artemis and I, and for a moment I indulge in the rhythmic noises, finding it more pleasant than realising that Artemis will want my assistance in helping him carry out a devious plan. A devious plan that will take his mind off his mother, but also take his life one step further into ultimate destruction. And maybe I don't really want that to happen, although I have no say in his life. I am but a bodyguard.

"Let's get out of here, Butler," he said softly, fixing me with a steely, tenacious gaze. "I don't want to be here."

Silently I watch him go, his feet betraying his confident, icy facade and shuffling listlessly away, towards the front door downstairs. Already a sense of dread is creeping up my skin, tormenting my mind, because I know that Artemis will inevitably ruin his own life in the next second to follow.

And my mind won't stop me from instinctively blaming someone else for this turn of events.

Holly. Why didn't you heal Mrs Fowl like Artemis had asked you to? It was a huge step for him to take, to request for something that personal and emotional. We would have given you half the ransom. But then you were beyond trusting us. I thought playing a part in saving you against the troll would have cleared your doubts a little. But no, you let hatred blind your judgement. You let a grudge mar your morals. And now we all will suffer.


End file.
